Afraid of the Dark (15 page)

Chapter Thirty

J
ack was awake half the night thinking about Shada Mays’ text message.

Last week’s tip from Jamal’s mother had been slightly off the mark. The police didn’t have any e-mails. It was a text-message exchange—just one—between Shada and someone using a pirated cell phone (owner unknown). Shada’s cell phone had disappeared along with her, so it had taken a subpoena from law enforcement to turn up the day-old text message on the carrier’s server. There were also records of phone calls to and from the same pirated cell, but there was no way of knowing what was said in those conversations. The single text was chilling enough, starting with a question from the man suspected of being McKenna’s killer:

“Are you afraid?”

“Not at all.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“No way. Never. I will see you tomorrow.”

Jack probably would have guessed it, but the date on the message confirmed as much: “Tomorrow” was the day Shada had gone missing.

Still, Jack wasn’t sure how to read it. Was she being defiant?
No way, you killed my daughter, but you will never intimidate me, you son of a bitch.
Was she playing the role of the “good cop”?
Don’t worry, accidents happen, I’ll see you tomorrow and you can tell me your side of the story.
They were merely printed words—no voice inflection, no context, no way to know for sure. The first line—
Are you afraid?—
was intriguing, and the addition of just three more words—
of The Dark—
would have all but confirmed in Jack’s mind that McKenna, Shada, Jamal, and Ethan Chang were all killed by the same man. As it was, that was still a distinct possibility.

Or someone was trying very hard to make it look that way.

The telephone rang on his nightstand, and Jack shot bolt upright in bed. His room was dark, but he hadn’t really been sleeping. A call at 3:40
A.M.
was never a good thing, and his first thought was of his grandfather in the nursing home.

“Hello?” he said.

There was no answer, but Jack sensed that someone was on the line.

“Who is this?” said Jack.

“Is this Mr. Swyteck?” The voice was beyond tentative. It sounded like a teenage girl—a frightened teenage girl.

“Yes,” said Jack. “Who’s calling?”

“You don’t know me, but . . . you were the lawyer for Jamal, right?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“I—I can’t tell you that.”

Her English was good, but she spoke with an accent. German, maybe. “Where are you calling from?”

“I can’t really tell you that, either.”

Jack heard the sounds of a city over the line—the echo of a car horn, the grumble of a bus or a diesel truck. She was obviously calling from outdoors, perhaps on a busy street corner, either a cell or a pay phone. Wherever she was, the business day had already begun; it definitely wasn’t 3:40
A.M.

“Did you know Jamal?” asked Jack.

“Uhm, not really. I spoke to him. Once.”

“When?”

“A couple of days ago,” she said, her voice quaking. “He gave me your number and begged me to call you. I told him he’d never hear from me again if he told you or anybody else we talked but . . . is it true that he’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God,” she said.

Jack jumped out of bed and started pacing. He wasn’t sure where to go with this, but it sounded important. “What did you and Jamal talk about?”

“Was he . . . killed?” she asked.

“It looks that way,” said Jack.

“Oh my God,” she said, and this time Jack thought she might hyperventilate.

“Calm down, okay?” said Jack. “If you know something about this, I can help. You just have to tell me what you know.”

A siren blasted in the background. She was definitely in a city.

“It’s like I told Jamal,” she said. “I think . . . I know who killed his girlfriend.”

Jack stopped pacing, frozen in the darkness of his bedroom. “McKenna Mays? You know who killed McKenna?”

“I think so.”

“Who was it?”

She didn’t answer.

“I need you tell me who did it,” said Jack.

“I’m afraid!”

Jack didn’t want to push too hard and lose her. “It’s okay. Have you gone to the police?”

“Yeah, right,” she said, and Jack could hear the struggle in her voice. “I can’t do that. No way.”

“Why not?”

Jack heard more of the sounds of the city, but she was silent.

“Why can’t you go to the police?” Jack asked.

“Because he would—”

She stopped herself. There were more urban sounds in the background, and Jack thought he heard her breathing. No, she was crying.

“Are you all right?” Jack asked.

The crying continued, stronger but more distant, as if she had taken the phone away from her face.

“Don’t hang up,” said Jack. “I need to know: Are you all right?”

The crying stopped, and Jack heard her take a deep breath.

“No,” she said, sobbing, “I’m not.”

Before Jack could respond, the caller was gone.

Chapter Thirty-one

H
er heart was pounding as she hung up the pay phone at the street corner. One thought consumed her, but she could barely get her mind around it. The gruesome photographs she’d seen weren’t staged. Jamal was dead, his foot cut off.

OMG!

She was shivering, partly from the cold but mostly with fright. This time of year, sunrise didn’t come to London until almost eight o’clock. Thirty minutes past dawn, the chill of night was still in the air, and the morning fog was so thick that she could barely see the top of the three-story redbrick buildings that defined the beaten-down neighborhood. She was in a place she knew well, near the Tayo Restaurant, the Hilaac Superstore, and the all-important Internet café. Neighborhood shops were opening for another business day, buses were running, and streets were lined with morning commuters. None of it put her at ease. There was no doubt in her mind that gangs like the Money Squad and African Nations Crew were still on the prowl, searching for young girls like her who were stupid enough to venture out alone. Gang violence terrified her. It had taken all the courage she could muster to head out before daybreak, and the brief telephone conversation with Jamal’s lawyer had only heightened her fears. Creepy blokes were everywhere. Like that man sitting on the curb and talking to himself.

Why is he looking at me?

The other runaways at the train station had called her paranoid. “Chill out,” they told her. “Bethnal Green has a reputation, but it’s not that bad these days. Lots of kids and parents with babies. Certainly not the worst area in London.”

Chill out?
People who said that were the same morons who would tell someone in a coma to “cheer up.” She knew better. You didn’t stop for a cigarette, didn’t load your iPod, didn’t even answer your mobile on these streets. She’d read about the girl who’d disappeared outside King’s Cross railway station—blond and sixteen, just like her. Scotland Yard found her on the other side of Euston Road, her throat slit and panties stuffed in her mouth. Things were no safer in Bethnal Green, even if the tube stations weren’t nearly as big. There were still creeps begging for money, bumming cigarettes, asking if you’re selling, tagging along, talking nonstop to you, refusing to go away, looking for runaways and teenage girls who bit their fingernails and tugged at their hair in ways that made them ripe for appropriation to whoring exercises. “Those are just the flavors of London’s northern lines,” people told her.

Flavors? Ha!

Sure, once you knew an area, you could spot trouble and steer away from the dodgy bloke. She knew the difference between a normal person and those who broke the conventional rules of social engagement—the skanks who stood too close, rubbed up against you, grabbed a feel. But, realistically, what could a girl do? A man might think nothing of standing alone at a bus stop two blocks away from the scene of the latest stabbing. A girl doing the same thing would quickly be asked how much she charged for a blow job. Having a dally with a creepy bloke, being half nice in case he demands money, but also trying to get rid of the unwanted visitor without offending—diffusing a potentially aggressive situation—required a bit of sharp thinking. Even a bit of paranoia.

Just a bit. I’m not PARANOID!

It was a safe bet that the jerks who’d teased her and called her chickenshit had never been dragged along by the hair on London’s sidewalks. Who the hell were they to go slagging her off as paranoid? If those losers started up again, then she was going to treat them back to the playground crap they dished out.

You want war, then this is war, you shits!

She drew a deep breath, then glanced across the street. She had to focus. Jamal was dead.

Double OMG!

Her mobile rang. She was afraid to answer, but the incoming number was enough to make her shudder. It was him. He knew her every move. Sixteen years old, and her life felt like prison.

I am a prisoner.

Her mobile continued to ring, but she let it go. There would be hell to pay for not answering, but she wasn’t prepared to explain what she’d been doing. And she would need a damn good explanation. He kept track of every penny he gave her, and five pounds for an international calling card from the Internet café was not an allowable expense. She ducked into the convenience store, grabbed a banana from the bin, and asked the clerk for a receipt.

“Can you make it out for five pounds?” she asked.

“What?”

“The receipt,” she said. “Can you make it for five pounds?”

“You bought a banana.”

“I know. But I need a receipt that says I paid five pounds.”

“Then buy ten bananas.”

“I just need the receipt. Can you do that?”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, and then he grabbed his crotch. “Have this banana.”

Her mobile rang, and she didn’t even have to check the incoming number. She was suddenly all too aware of the bracelet on her ankle. It was always there, twenty-four hours a day. It was probably a lot like Jamal’s—except that hers hadn’t been put there by the police. She wanted to rip it off, but that would be a very foolish move. There was a reason he had shown her those photographs of Jamal.

“He’ll cut my foot off, too!”

“You want the banana or not?” asked the clerk.

She was almost too flustered to answer. “Forget it.”

She hurried out of the store, her mobile still ringing, not sure what she was going to say when she got back to the flat and he grabbed her by the hair and said,
“What the hell have you been up to, you little slut?”

Chapter Thirty-two

I
’m sorry for the loss of your son,” said Jack.

Neil echoed Jack’s sentiment, and Maryam Wakefield expressed her appreciation quietly. She looked physically and emotionally drained, and with good reason.

Wednesday morning marked three days since Jamal’s death—the end of the traditional Islamic mourning period for any relative of the deceased other than the widow of a married man. On Sunday Jamal’s uncle flew down from Minneapolis to be with Maryam, but the medical examiner didn’t complete his autopsy and release the body until early Tuesday. Islamic law called for a quick burial and disfavored transportation of the body. Jamal’s uncle washed and wrapped the body in a shroud, a brief funeral service was held on Tuesday afternoon, and Jamal was taken directly to the cemetery and laid to rest (on his right side, facing Mecca) in Miami, the community in which he had last lived.

Jack could see in Maryam’s eyes that she had slept not a wink last night.

“Come in, please,” she said.

Jack was respectful of her loss, and he wouldn’t have come if Maryam had not extended an invitation. Her suite had a kitchenette and spacious seating area, but it was the kind of low-budget hotel that any last-minute traveler could pick up on the Internet for the price of dinner for four at McDonald’s: well within earshot of both the airport and the expressway, and last updated when fluorescent tube lighting and shag carpeting was all the rage.

Maryam introduced Jamal’s uncle as Hassan. His dress was not as Western as Maryam’s, and he had the full beard of a traditional Muslim male. It was Jack’s quick impression that he was more religious than Maryam, and that he’d been a tremendous help with the necessary arrangements.

“Your brother?” asked Jack.

“No,” said Maryam.

“I am the brother of Abukar,” said Hassan. “Abukar is Jamal’s father.”

The terrorist recruiter
, thought Jack—and then he immediately chided himself about the whole guilt-by-association thing.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Neil, seeming to recognize that Jack was momentarily tongue-tied.

Maryam led them into the seating area and took the armchair. Jack and Neil sat on the couch facing her. Jamal’s uncle sat away from them on a barstool at the kitchen counter. He read in silence from the Koran, seeming to ignore the company.

“It wasn’t my plan to call you,” said Maryam. “But Detective Burton from MDPD came to see me this afternoon. He told me about a lead they were pursuing. A message of some sort that was written on a cocktail napkin from that club he went to.”

Jamal’s uncle looked up from his Koran. The mere mention of a cocktail napkin from a club on South Beach did not sit well with him.

“What kind of message?” asked Jack.

She opened her purse and handed Jack a paper. “Here, I wrote it down exactly as the detective described it.”

Jack inspected it, and immediately felt chills. “Are you afraid of The Dark?” Jack said for Neil’s benefit. “It’s identical to the one I got on the night Ethan Chang was murdered. Right down to the capital
T
and capital
D
. Also written on a napkin.”

“I know,” said Maryam. “Detective Burton seems unwilling to share his theories as to who wrote them. I wanted to hear yours.”

Jack again caught a glimpse of Uncle Hassan. He was clearly listening from across the room, and it bothered Jack that he was pretending not to.

“I honestly don’t have any ideas,” said Jack.

“Detective Burton also told me about the phone call you received.”

Jack had, of course, reported it to the police. “What did he tell you?”

“Everything,” she said. “Except where it came from.”

“Did you ask?”

“Yes. He said he was not at liberty to say.”

Jack had heard of detectives keeping certain facts secret in an ongoing investigation, but he had another theory here.

“Were you alone when you met with Detective Burton?

“No. Hassan was with me.”

Jack wondered if Hassan’s presence had caused the detective to hold back—if Burton had given in to the same guilt-by-association prejudice that Jack was fighting now.

Maryam slid to the edge of her chair, her dark eyes like lasers aimed right at Jack. “I need to know where that call came from.”

Jack looked back at her, then shifted his gaze toward Hassan. It was purely instinct, but Jack sensed that Hassan wanted to know as much as she did.

“At the time, I didn’t know where it was coming from,” said Jack.

“But surely you’ve checked the number,” said Maryam.

“Yes.”

“And?”

Again Jack glanced across the room at Hassan. Jack could have lied and said he didn’t know, but in the end, the balance tipped in favor of a mother’s right to know.

“It was from a pay phone,” said Jack. “In London.”

Maryam froze. Hassan rose and crossed the room, no longer pretending to be an outsider. “Where in London?” he asked.

“Bethnal Green.”

Maryam closed her eyes for several seconds, as if to absorb the news. Finally, she opened them.

“Is something wrong?” asked Jack.

Hassan spoke up. “That’s where my brother and I parted company. Sixteen years ago.”

Only then did Jack pick up the hint of a British accent. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” said Hassan. “My brother is the only sympathizer of al-Shabaab in our family, though I suppose that, to you, I look like a terrorist, too.”

Jack suddenly felt small. “No, uh—not at all.”

Maryam said, “That area along the Mile End Road between Whitechapel and Bethnal Green underground stations is called Somaal Town. Lots of Somali ex-pats, and also some cool clubs and pubs. I met Hassan’s brother when I was visiting London one summer. He and Hassan were sharing an apartment, but they were never anything alike.”

“Still aren’t,” said Hassan.

“Are you saying that Jamal’s father is behind this phone call?”

“Who knows?” said Maryam.

“We do know this much,” said Hassan. “That area has changed over the years. It’s what some people would call eclectic, but you still have gangs, more crime. To be blunt about it, there are a lot of dead-end Somali teenage boys, which makes it a fruitful recruiting area for al-Shabaab. And there is one thing we all know about my brother.”

“He’s a recruiter for al-Shabaab,” said Jack.

“Exactly.”

“I still don’t see the connection to a panicked young girl who calls me in the middle of the night to tell me that she knows who killed McKenna Mays.”

“You haven’t looked,” said Hassan.

Maryam was suddenly emotional. She’d held herself together well, but it was all too much. Hassan went to her and gave comfort. Tears were in her eyes as she looked at Jack.

“Someone has to find out what happened to my son.”

“I’m sure the police . . .” Jack stopped himself. With the resistance he’d faced at every turn—the Department of Justice, the state attorney’s office, the CIA, the private security firms, even his own fiancée—he couldn’t peddle false hope that the police would get to the truth.

Hassan took her hand, and then looked at Jack. “Our faith teaches that when one dies, everything in this earthly life is left behind. There are no more opportunities to perform acts of righteousness and faith. But the Prophet Muhammad once said that there are three things that may continue to benefit a person after death. Charity given during life, which continues to help others. Knowledge, which grants enduring benefits. And third, a righteous child who prays for him or her.”

Maryam wiped away a tear. “I’ve lost my righteous child,” she said. “My only son.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Jack.

“For whatever reason, Jamal trusted you. So I trust you. And that is why I’m asking you this favor: Help me find the man who took my child away from me.”

“I honestly don’t know what I can do.”

“Please,” she said. “Help me.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to. But I’m a lawyer, and the sad fact of the matter is that my client is dead. I’m not a private investigator.”

“You missed the operative words,” said Hassan. “Jamal trusted you, so we trust you.”

“Right now,” said Maryam, “we don’t trust a lot of people.”

Jack wasn’t sure where this was headed, but it would have taken a heart of stone not to at least listen.

“All right,” he said. “What is it that you want me to do?”